Garethred walked slowly but steadily up a stone stairway, the peaceful fields of Anórien surrounding him. He sent Malheru in advance to scout the area and warn him of any orc intruders approaching in his direction. They were, above all, planning to cross Cair Andros – the northern pass to Mordor – and had to make sure it is still held by a Gondorian garrison. Garethred reached the top of the stairs and a decent view was uncovered to him. Cair Andros was a few miles away and seemed undamaged.
He quietly cheered, then looked down beneath the cliff he was standing on and narrowed his eyes. He could sense some intruders after all, and it wasn’t Malheru, for he would know. The steed charged upstairs and slided right before him, the hooves taking good few feet to stop him completely. His exhausted expression was enough for Garethred to realize there really –are- intruders and they aren’t the normal sort of orc he would expect in these lands. He could also tell they were headed to the same stairway they are currently using to get a view, for Malheru turned around and pointed his head downstairs. Garethred grabbed his bow and loaded it with a silver-thorn arrow. While keeping the bow-string loose he sneaked behind the closest tree and narrowed his eyes again.
Then he saw them. He could tell right away they were orc-kind, but they were larger and wore heavy iron plates, as big that one could confuse it with a troll. They were panicked and hurried upstairs as if they were hunted from behind. Garethred didn’t hesitate and sent the first arrow at the closest of orcs. The orc got the arrow right into the middle of his neck and the pushback of the shot made him fly back down by about ten feet. There were three other orcs following and when they noticed they are being squeezed from both sides, they stopped and covered their heads in despair. Garethred shot down another one, then tilted his head to the side, knowing precisely what this behaviour means. He shot down another one and the last orc fell simultaneously with him, with the slight difference of a javelin piercing his head through.
Garethred walked back on the open stairway and lowered his bow. He stood there, slightly leaning on his bow and staring downwards, expecting someone to show up. There was complete silence until one of the bushes about twenty steps away rustled in disturbance. Garethred put his bow back, for there seemed to be no danger anymore.
“Come out. Your hideaway is revealed,” he shouted loudly in the fearsome low-pitched tone his mask provides.
A ranger crawled out of the bush, holding a bow with an arrow loaded. He began to twitch nervously as he looked up at Garethred, his face filled with hatred. “Get out of here right now, spy!”
“And I thought the people here are friendly!” Garethred answered coldly while slowly walking downstairs towards him, his right hand on Valamegil’s hilt. The ranger trembled slightly at every heavy footstep, more so as Garethred’s sharp stare was locked at him. The ranger stood on his spot, however, and tried hard to remain steady.
But Garethred, driven by insanity longing for the salvation of Muiliel, drew Valamegil and with a swing unbelievably quick he cut the ranger’s bow in half, then kicked him right in the chest so the ranger fell back against the bush. Before he could regain control of himself, the ranger found his shoulder held tightly in Garethred’s grasp and the “Edge of Valar” pointed at his neck. He closed his eyes and realized all courage has left him. They remained like this for a minute during which all was silent except the ranger’s groans. Garethred, not being himself, turned around and threw the ranger against the stairs, sheathed the sword and resumed walking downstairs.
He whistled for Malheru to follow him. The steed stopped at the ranger’s battered body and sadly looked down at his master, shaking his head then slowly continuing down the stairway. He wasn’t afraid of him; he simply knew what his issue was...
